


Will You Let Your Cities Crumble

by Mead (moonlightmead)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: 80s, CND, Escapade 25th Anniversary Zine, Established Relationship, London, M/M, Quakers, Undercover As Gay, fun with badges, look Mead has discovered tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:15:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlightmead/pseuds/Mead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1983, and twenty-five years after a well-known protest movement was formed. When nuclear waste is found in the tube network, suspicion falls on an unlikely source.<br/><i>“CND?” Doyle’s tone was incredulous.</i><br/><i>“Apparently.” Cowley glared impartially at them. “So I want you two out there marching for a nuclear-free world before Big Ben starts to glow at night and the fish in the Serpentine start walking.”</i><br/>Bodie and Doyle find themselves sharing a flat (and a bed) and working for the cause, dealing with old soldiers, vegans, dope-smoking students, anarchists, and Quakers. At least in the peace movement, they shouldn't need their guns...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will You Let Your Cities Crumble

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Escapade con zine to celebrate 25 years of Escapade. Suggested themes that I remember included Escapade itself, 25 years, and celebration. Two out of three...

“Nuclear waste in the tube tunnels and on parts of the national rail network.” Cowley’s tone was brisk. “It’s not getting there by accident. Someone’s putting it there.”

Bodie watched the Cow as he paced to the window of his office. The London rain blew hard against the window, which rattled, and Bodie regretted the absence of a tea tray on the desk. Doyle had draped himself against his favourite filing cabinet, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on Cowley. Bodie carefully kept his eyes away from his partner, concentrating on the matter at hand.

“Sabotage, sir? Terrorism? The Russians?” 

“Who knows, Bodie? But it’s the twenty-fifth anniversary of the formation of CND this year, and intelligence suggests some members may be getting impatient.”

“CND?” Doyle’s tone was incredulous. 

“Apparently.” Cowley glared impartially at them. “So I want you two out there marching for a nuclear-free world before Big Ben starts to glow at night and the fish in the Serpentine start walking.”

“CND?” Doyle wasn’t usually so slow on the uptake. 

“Yes, Doyle. What’s the matter with you? It’s a simple job for you lads – aye, Doyle, especially for you. With your hair you could walk into a meeting tonight and no-one would question you.”

Through the corner of his eye, Bodie watched Doyle open his mouth to reply, catch himself, and resort to glowering instead. The man had a lovely way of arranging himself, casual but focussed at the same time. Bodie told himself firmly to keep his mind in the office, and not in the bedroom. 

“Yes, sir.” Doyle had composed himself. 

“Is that the file?” Bodie reached out for the green folder in Cowley’s hand.

“That’s the outline. You can get the rest of the files from Betty. There may be more to come. I’m trying to get a line on them from Five at the moment – they’re bound to have a man or two inside, they like to penetrate all the subversive organisations.”

Bodie heard Doyle stifle a snort.

“Doyle?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Good. So we’re waiting for Five, and the Met have been told to co-operate. They don’t know what it’s about at the moment.”

“Their normal state of affairs, sir. They never do.”

“Bodie!” Doyle and Cowley echoed each other. Bodie grinned, flapped the file at Doyle, and ushered him out. 

Back in the cubbyhole that served as an office, Bodie regarded Doyle with amusement. “Okay, what was all that about?” 

“All what?” 

“That. With the Cow. About your hair.”

Doyle ran his hand through his hair by reflex. “Oh. Yeah.” He looked belligerent for a moment and then shrugged. “If that’s his level of preparation, that doesn’t bode well. Not everyone in the anti-nuclear lobby’s got long hair.”

Bodie was ready to accept that, but Doyle carried on. 

“Or votes Labour. Or is vegetarian. Or wears sandals. Or drives a 2CV. Or avoids holidaying in Spain. Franco,” he appended, when Bodie frowned a question at him. “Okay, yeah, that was the seventies. Sociology teachers. Ramblers Society. Yoghurt. Guardian reader. Fair trade coffee. Church bazaars. All that.” He flapped a hand. “All right, about seventy per cent of them probably are one of those at least, but that’s still a lot who aren’t. And anyway, CND spreading nuclear waste? It doesn’t begin to make sense.”

“Oh, you’re fairly up on them? Good, you can fill me in.”

“’I’ve met them before, yes.” His tone was dismissive. “You’ll fit in quite well with sections of them. Suit, tie, polished shoes, some of them will go for that.”

“Yeah?” Bodie was surprised. 

“Lots of normal people involved too. Scientists. Ex-services. Teachers. Lots of teachers. Lot of armed forces types, believe it or not. Not just your ‘I did National Service for a year, youth of today don’t know what they’re missing’ type, but regular army, RAF, all sorts.”

“Great. I’ll take the normal ones then, and you can have the rest.”

Doyle looked as though he was about to snap back, then paused, and laughed. “Right. Chuck us over one of those files. Let’s get started.”

* * * 

They decided to keep to their own names, Doyle more dubiously than Bodie, but were told to move to non-CI5 accommodation. Cowley approved the rent on a single flat. They moved in over the course of a weekend. 

“You’re sure about the backstories?”

Bodie stopped for breath and to check with Doyle as he carried the record player in. He’d had to leave the music centre back home, but since Doyle had won the argument about likely musical tastes for their parts, he didn’t feel it was a great sacrifice. The small living room was hardly a sound connoisseur’s delight, and he could see them both arguing over the guitar. He resolved to make sure that the radio in the mini-kitchen attached to the living room was tuned to something more palatable, however comfortable the sofa in the living room might be. Radio reception was appalling in the second bedroom, but since he had already decided that it was for show, he wasn’t too concerned. Admittedly, he hadn’t mentioned this to Doyle yet, but Bodie was confident that he could persuade him they should make the most of the opportunity. Doyle’s reply broke into his thoughts. 

“Absolutely. I told you, ex-servicemen are ten a penny in CND. Perhaps drop the merc work, mind.” 

Bodie had already decided to do that. “So ex-army is all right, but ex-policeman isn’t?”

“Definitely not. The whole movement’s convinced that the police and security services are hand in glove on smear jobs.”

“Are they wrong?”

Doyle grinned. “Probably not, no. That’s why I’ll just be a driver. Odd jobs. This and that. Know where to get things cheap for the cause.”

“Driver and odd jobs, that’s our lives anyway. Still, be nice to do it without being shot at.”

Doyle scoffed at him. “You’ll get bored.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

* * *

“I’m bored.”

“That didn’t take long.”

“Three weeks!”

“Still not long. And I told you.”

“Yeah, you did. Sod. You’re enjoying this,” Bodie added with a note of accusation. It didn’t help that Doyle was taking every opportunity to eye him up, while he, still folding pieces of paper into creases, couldn’t look up to reciprocate. 

Doyle detached himself from the squashy chair he had been lying over and sauntered over to where Bodie was sprawled on the living room sofa.

“You. Are supposed. To be folding leaflets.” His gaze dropped onto the boxes of paper back from the printers and currently serving as a second table for supporting mugs of tea, and then returned to Bodie. “The cause is relying on you.”

“It’s a very boring cause.” 

Doyle grinned. “I did warn you.” He waded astride Bodie’s legs and seated himself. “Tell you what. You finish your leaflets, and I’ll stay here and… encourage you.” He leaned in, and nipped Bodie’s neck gently.

Bodie caught his breath. “Ray…” 

“What?” Doyle’s voice was muffled, his breath warm and damp. Bodie knew his eyes would be half-closed in satisfaction. “What’s the matter?” Doyle’s lips were moving, lapping around his neck as his hands began to find their way down Bodie’s back.

“Ray…”

“What?” Exasperation took over. “C’mon, Bodie. Been waiting all day.”

“I’ve got another two boxes, Ray.” Despite his words, Bodie could feel himself responding. The paper dropped from his hands, which crept towards the cheek of Doyle’s arse. He groaned. “For tonight. And you’re not helping me go any faster.” His fingers reached their target. Doyle shifted himself onto Bodie’s hands obligingly, his arms still draped loosely over Bodie’s shoulders.

“Coming, I was thinking of, not going.”

With a supreme effort, Bodie lifted Doyle’s arms away. The sacrifices he made for queen and country. “You’re a tease. Either that, or your timing is bloody awful. It’s the liaison meeting tonight. Here. Get off me, angelfish. Make me a mug of tea. Not that fair trade sawdust, either.”

“Bored of me already,” Doyle lamented, and sauntered out to boil the kettle. 

He returned bearing mugs of tea and a biscuit tin filled with cakes. “Present from Sue.”

“How sweet.” Bodie tasted one dubiously and then disposed of the rest in two bites. “Mmm. Okay, fair trading lesbian vegan she may be – or do I mean a vegan lesbian? But she can cook. Pass me another?” He reached out.

Doyle regarded Bodie, an amused smile twisting his lips. “You not going to say ‘What a waste’ or something?”

Bodie felt obscurely hurt. “What? About Sue? No. I think she’s…” He shrugged. “She’s all right. Okay, I could do without the lectures about Freudian symbolism and cars. And God help us all if she knew about the guns. But she’s all right. Straightforward. What you see is what you get. And her file with CID, that was such a load of crap, it was actually an entertaining read.”

Sue was one of several activists they had met over the past few weeks who had a file somewhere in the system. Hers listed altercations with the police, resisting arrest, and a series of public order offences ranging from petty to ludicrous. Bodie had no objection to two pretty girls kissing in the street, and Sue’s earnest account one late night of almost being run over by a Master of Foxhounds when she had attempted to spray foul-smelling but harmless Citronella near the start of a fox hunt had struck him as more credible than the official police report about a five foot nothing pacifist attacking the MFH with acid.

Doyle continued to gaze at Bodie. “I thought you’d be at home with all the old soldiers, and instead you’re Sue’s agony aunt. You never cease to surprise me.”

“Well, I do the old soldiers, too. You’re just jealous because you haven’t got a badge. Not like mine.” Bodie brandished his ‘Ex-Servicemen Against the Bomb’ badge at Doyle. “I bet you’ve lost yours again.” 

During a chilly day on a CND stall, Bodie had sorted through the distinctive badges – ‘Miners Against the Bomb’, ‘Teachers Against the Bomb’, ‘Tories Against the Bomb’ – until he found one for Doyle, and pinned it on him in pride. Under the benevolent gaze of Thomas, their intellectual anarchist in his seventies, Doyle had been unable to object, but the ‘Well-Meaning Guardian Readers Against the Bomb’ badge had disappeared as soon as Doyle had found opportunity. Bodie had promptly taken it as his cause to bring home every possible badge that might suit Doyle’s cover, and Doyle had found himself labelled variously as a Vegetarian against the Bomb, a Cat Lover Against the Bomb, and a Musician Against The Bomb. He had drawn the line the day that he had found a sticker on his jacket that said, so Bodie had informed him, ‘Nuclear power? No thanks’. In Finnish. 

Doyle sighed, and reached over to his leather jacket. Among the biker and band badges, ‘Well-meaning Guardian Readers Against the Bomb’ had returned to nestle next to ‘Free Nelson Mandela’ and an expression of solidarity with the printers’ unions. 

“Very good,” Bodie approved. 

“And there’s a Guardian in the kitchen, just in case.”

“You think of everything.”

“Someone has to. Even if it’s a wild goose chase.”

Bodie straightened. “What’s your problem, Ray? Ever since we got this, you’ve been like a bear with a sore head.” 

Doyle shrugged. 

Bodie persevered. “Is it the cause? Ah, come on. It may be an honourable cause –” he saw Doyle look up sharply “ – but if someone’s using it as a cats paw, it’s got to be investigated. Can’t have nuclear waste all over the trains. British Rail pork pies are bad enough as it is. We don’t want them glowing green and achieving consciousness one night.”

“Honourable cause? This? Honourable, maybe, but twenty-five years, and it hasn’t got very far, has it? People have devoted their lives to this, and for what?”

“Never heard you so grumpy. What’s the matter? Is it the nut cutlets?”

Doyle looked unwillingly amused. “Nah. Just… I dunno. We’re not getting anywhere fast, and we need to. And this is a mass movement. Come on, Bodie. While you were doing whatever you were up to with the Regiment, the anti-nuclear movement went mainstream. It’s not like the Aldermaston marches in the fifties. You saw the files. There were a quarter of a million in Hyde Park not so long ago.” He paused. “Quarter of a million. The Labour Party’s just put unilateral disarmament on its manifesto. All very respectable now. We’re looking for a needle in a haystack.” He rubbed his nose. “Possibly not even in the right field, either. There’s a sizeable portion of this lot who are only anti-nuclear weapons; they’re okay with the nuclear power industry. We might not even be looking at the right group.”

Bodie swallowed a second cake. “Got to start somewhere. And we’re doing all right here. Already established that it’s not anyone in the main membership, haven’t we? The rank-and-filers.” He frowned. “Did Cowley ever hear back from MI5? What about the Met? You heard back from your old mates?”

Doyle shook his head. “Weren’t many to begin with. Let’s assume we won’t. How are you doing on your lot?”

Bodie thought about the people he had met who shared his ‘Ex-Servicemen Against the Bomb’ badge. “So far? They’ve got the skills and the organisational ability but not the inclination. Lot of bad feeling about the A-bomb tests. Last thing they’d want is more people exposed to radiation. And they’re…” He paused, unsure how to explain. “They’re like us. CI5. War’s war. That’s us and them. But Hiroshima, Nagasaki… That’s civilians. Like people in the high street. They don’t want that. Not here, not there, not anywhere.”

“That can’t be universal.”

“In the services? God, no. Anyone who was in Burma when they dropped the bomb, no. That probably saved their life. They’re all for that nuke. And they say so.” He paused, curious. “Is that where the Cow was, you think? What did you say, that time? He talked about being in a war? The story about the POWs? Got to be Burma, and the Japs, surely?”

Doyle glanced up. “Yeah, I got the impression it was Burma. South-east Asia, definitely. And yeah, your ultimate pragmatist, the Cow, I reckon.” Absent-mindedly, he removed the cakes from Bodie’s reach. Bodie ignored Doyle as he continued.

“Right. Can’t imagine him wanting to give it up. Anyway. Anyone who thinks like that, they won’t be joining the anti-nuclear movement, will they? The ones we’re looking at are the ones who are against the bomb. Nice old boys, some of them.” 

Doyle was looking at him with an indecipherable look. Almost… sympathy? Bodie felt nettled. “What?”

Doyle shrugged. “Nothing. How are those leaflets coming?”

Bodie recognised the change in Doyle’s mood, and returned to his boxes. 

* * * 

“How did the leaflets come on, then?” The final arrival for the liaison committee meeting had followed Bodie into the kitchen, avoiding the others as they debated some point Bodie was sure wasn’t on the agenda for the evening and which he had no interest in. In the circumstances he was happy to put the kettle on again.

“All done, yeah. Fancy a cuppa?”

“Is it fair trade?” John looked hopeful. 

Bodie nodded earnestly. “Ray wouldn’t have the other sort in the house.”

“Good lad. Are all the others here?”

Bodie nodded. “You’re the last. Well done – you avoided the impromptu discussion about affiliating to the regional area group.” 

John looked amused. “Thought that might come up. Been around long enough to remember the arguments before we disaffiliated. Let the new generation do it all again.”

“Wasn’t the new generation,” Bodie informed him through a mouthful of cake. “Well, some of it was. Isobel and Bodger. If that’s his name? Paul. Bodger. Whatever. But Thomas is here. He ran rings round them.” He picked up the tray. “Shall we?” 

In the living room, four people crowded around a map on a table and a series of phone numbers on paper. Conversation was animated. As Bodie arrived with John, Doyle darted him a conspiratorial smile. In a room full of chatter, it was for him alone. Bodie felt warmed by it, and then exposed – could everyone see what was in Doyle’s look at him? They didn’t seem to have looked up, but all the same, it could have been a close thing. The discussion continued, tea, biscuits and cake consumed absently. Thomas and John had their diaries out, comparing dates with Doyle, when Doyle broke off mid-conversation. 

“Okay, so you want me on Tuesday to Thursday? Bodie! How do you fancy a few nights away? Cruise Watch,” he explained. “At RAF Molesworth. Cambridgeshire. Camp outside the base, wait for the missile convoy to set off, trail it, find out where it’s going, back in time for breakfast.”

“Er – weren’t you supposed to be delivering my leaflets this week? You fold them, I’ll deliver them, that’s what you said.”

“Ah damn. I forgot all about it.” Doyle looked mournful, his eyes sparkling. “I’ll make it up to you, yeah?” His voice was full of taunting promise. 

His words fell into a pause in the general conversation. A couple of heads looked up, and the others followed. Bodie cringed internally.

“Aye aye?” queried Bodger, alert for once. 

Isobel dug him in the ribs. “Paul! Ignore him,” she told Doyle. “Between the university and the dope, he’s not fit for company.”

Doyle shrugged, unconcerned. “You tell him, love.” 

Bodie winced.

“I am not ‘your love’,” Isobel reminded Doyle icily.

“I know, lo–. Er. I know.”

“More tea?” interjected Bodie quickly. “Ray. Give me a hand here.”

As soon as Doyle was in the kitchen, Bodie glared at him. “What are you doing?” He couldn’t afford to let his voice rise above a hissing whisper. “They’ll all be guessing things about us if we’re…” he gestured. “…if you keep that up.”

“What? Oh, leave it out, Bodie. They won’t care. Do you see any of them giving a shit about Sue? Tom’s an anarchist, Isobel’s a feminist, Bodger’s a twat – what does Isobel see in him?” He paused, diverted. 

Bodie avoided the sideline. “Does what he’s told perhaps? Never mind them, this is about us! Our cover. Our assignment. We can’t end up being labelled as… that.” He didn’t even want to put a name to it. “We’ll be ostracised by the people we’re trying to penetrate. What about John? Quaker, remember?”

“Oh, Bodie.” Doyle laughed. “Quakers are the last people to worry about. They won’t care.”

“They’re fundamentalist Christians!”

“Hardly. Most of the Christians are very dubious about them. Have you never come across them?”

Bodie shook his head. 

“Well, I’ve known a few. If they think something is very wrong, they’ll want to do something about it.”

“You’re just proving my point!”

“No. John’s here because he thinks nuclear weapons are immoral. He faffs about fair trade coffee and sugar because he thinks that’s moral. He volunteers with ex-offenders, and he deals with some very unpleasant people.”

“So he’ll just think we’re unpleasant.”

“Stop it, Bodie. No. Look. They're all about sitting in silence until someone stands up and says something. And then they all mull it over and sit around in silence some more. And then they get up and, I dunno, start boycotting arms traders or something. Peacefully. That's very important to them.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And another thing.” Doyle grinned. “They don't lie. Not if they can possibly avoid it. Very refreshing, that can be.”

Bodie had his doubts about anyone refraining from lying, but continued to press on the main point. “What's that got to do with us, though? And...” He paused, shrugging uncomfortably.

Doyle followed his thought. “All part of the same thing. Something of God in everyone. Even us. They'll reckon God knows what he’s doing with us. Look, Bodie, John really won’t care about us. Ask him what he’s been arrested for sometime. Make sure you’ve got some time to spare, mind.” Doyle looked amused.

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously. “ Doyle paused, and then came over to grip Bodie’s shoulders. Bodie automatically glanced towards the door. It was open, but there was no-one there. Doyle tightened his grip. “It’s _okay_. Look, it finally sank in, mate. This is undercover. And it’s not like being a gambler or a reporter or a punter at the greyhounds and trying not to attract the attention of the police. This isn’t the establishment. They’re the opposite. Look at who we’ve got in there at the moment. Being known as bent would work to our advantage.” His eyes held Bodie’s, confident and confiding. 

Bodie looked back, waiting him out. 

“Okay, well. Maybe not with everyone,” Doyle conceded. “Maybe not the mainstream types who show up with pushchairs and balloons to the big marches. But that’s not who we’re looking at, is it? We’re looking for someone in the thick of it. Someone in the activist end. And among them, a couple of poofs –” he ignored Bodie’s wince – “is just another pair of bodies. Look, Bodie, it just puts us outside society ourselves, like them. It’s far less important than the fact that we can drive anything and have PSV licences for minibuses and we can read a map properly and know how to use a compass and carry boxes of leaflets.”

“And what if it gets back to Cowley?” 

Doyle shrugged. “What if it does? We tell him it was our cover, and it worked well. And, obviously, too well, if he thinks there could really be anything in it. You can tell him he should have sprung for two flats if he was worried about our image.”

Bodie considered. Always good at undercover, it had apparently taken Doyle no more than forty-eight hours to become an expert on the movement they were investigating. How? How much of that was prior knowledge? Was it from his years on the beat? He hadn’t realised Limehouse policing brought him into such regular contact with the anti-nuclear crowd. And if he was so casually authoritative, why was he so grumpy about this whole thing? Bodie would have to find out. But for now… 

“So, if I sit up close to you and steal a kiss along with your biscuits…”

“No-one will give a shit, no. Not that they’ll notice anything different. You steal them anyway. Well. Biscuits.”

Bodie capitulated. And then grinned. “Finally, an undercover I can enjoy.”

Doyle cuffed him. “Fool. Get back in there with the tea.”

Bodie returned to find that in their absence they had been put down for a number of jobs, and, that done, the meeting was breaking up. John handed Doyle a sheaf of paper and went into a huddle with him, while Bodie discovered that he had been delegated to drive Bodger and Isobel to a planning camp at the weekend. “You know that private car use is inefficient and contributes to lead poisoning?” he objected mildly. “Can’t you plan your direct action somewhere with public transport?”

“Not this one,” pronounced Isobel. “We need somewhere… quiet.” She looked meaningfully at Bodger. Bodger looked puzzled and then his face cleared. “Oh. That one.” 

“Yes,” Isobel agreed. “That one.”

Thomas paused from putting his coat on. “Oh dear. What are you two up to now? You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Oh, we will,” assured Isobel. “Definitely.”

Doyle was looking between the three of them curiously. Before he could decide to get involved – and miss bloody leafleting day, thought Bodie resentfully – Bodie stepped forward. “Okay. What time do you need to be there?”

“Eight am,” admitted Isobel. “Pick us up from my flat, will you?”

Bodie managed not to flinch when Doyle flung an arm around him in a more overtly teasing way than normal as he showed Isobel to the door. “I’ll be there before you are,” Bodie assured Isobel.

* * * 

“I’ll look forward to hearing all about it,” was Doyle’s only comment as they left the mugs to drain. “Rather you than me. But, in the meantime, since you’re up so early, perhaps we should have an early night?”

Bodie looked at him. 

Doyle sauntered towards him and laid his arms on Bodie’s shoulders. “Since we were so rudely interrupted earlier?” 

“That was you,” Bodie pointed out, indignant. “Flaunting yourself and then taking yourself off. And then all that hinting with the others here. You’re a tease.” Secure now that the flat was empty again, he brought his hands up around Doyle’s sides, working his hands up under the t-shirt. He flicked a finger at Doyle and felt him tense. “Time to pay up, I reckon. Come on.”

Together, they headed towards the bedroom, where they pulled clothes off and fell onto the bed. The novelty of being somewhere with almost official sanction still had a powerful effect on Bodie. He worked his way down Doyle’s body, hands and mouth, pressing, pushing, taking. Doyle arched his neck and back, and pushed back. Bodie pushed further, a finger snaking round Doyle, reaching for him. Finally, he had Doyle where he wanted him. 

After several minutes had passed, Doyle pulled away. “Hang on.”

Bodie gritted his teeth. Doyle _was_ being a tease. “Ray…”

“I’m not running away, Casanova.” Doyle peeled himself away from Bodie with every sign of reluctance and pushed himself off the bed. He moved to the curtains and tugged them more tightly together. “Might be okay in front of others in the group, but no point in taking chances in front of the neighbours. “ He returned, kneeling back down onto the bed. “Now then. Where were we?”

The next hour more than made up for the teasing Bodie had suffered throughout the day. 

* * * 

Doyle lay flat out, limbs splayed carelessly. Bodie finished dressing and looked down on him.

“Where are you?” Doyle groped around the covers. “Ugh. All cold.”

Bodie grinned heartlessly. “Wakey wakey. Morning! Hands off cocks, onto socks!” He picked up his rucksack and swung it onto his shoulder. “Off to this mysterious camp of Isobel’s. See you tonight.” He pulled the sheet back further, laughed at Doyle’s curses, and headed out. 

Rather to Bodie’s surprise, Isobel and Bodger were on time and alert. Bundled up in heavy layers, they directed him to a rural location some way out of London.

“This?” queried Bodie incredulously. “What the hell is this?” They were looking at a rocky cliff face, its surface largely obscured by buddleia, young sycamore, and creeping flowers. 

“Old quarry,” supplied Isobel. “Tunnels, pot-holing, climbing.” 

“Building a bunker for when they drop the bomb, are you?”

Isobel slanted a glance at him. “You’re not as far off as you think. It does involve bunkers, yes. We’re practising climbing and pot-holing. We’ve got a plan.”

“Are you now? I climb,” Bodie offered off-handedly as he tucked away the location in his memory. “Need a hand?”

“Might do. Come and meet the gang.”

“Great. Looking forward to finding out what’s going on.” 

* * *

“It’s freezing in here!” Bodie had been looking forward to getting back to the flat and relaxing after an intriguing day, but had not expected it to be so cold on his return. Nevertheless, he removed his shoes and most of his clothes. “What’s going on?” 

Doyle’s voice answered from the kitchen. “Had some of the lads round here to use the phone. They’re convinced their phone’s being bugged by MI5. Which it probably is. So they asked to borrow ours. Which definitely is – by us. Ironic, eh? And the reason I’m so sure they’re not up to anything. Also, it’s Saturday. Cheap rate. So they’ve been ringing all their mates long distance.” He gestured at a pile of five and tenpence pieces by the phone as he came into the passage. “Doubt that’s covered it, but they left us some dope as well. Seemed to think that would do. And then they produced some more for themselves, and things got a bit…” he flapped his hand before his face as he emerged into view “…smoky. Couldn’t see to open the window at one stage. So I’m trying to get some air in. We really don’t need busting by the cops. How did it go?” He paused to stare. “Bodie, what in the name of God have you been up to?”

Bodie had had an interesting day, and said so. “Getting somewhere, I think. This is obviously the right direction. That Bodger, he’s a natural at climbing. All arms and legs, and he can bend into the smallest holes.”

“Climbing? Holes? Have you been pot-holing?” Doyle stalked forward to the heap of clothes. “Oh my god, you have. Or you’ve been rolling in the mud for fun. What are they doing? Hang on.” He ducked into the bedroom and produced a towel, a shirt, and a pair of trousers. “Catch.”

“Ta.” Bodie wrapped the towel around himself and headed for the bathroom. “You’ll love this. The vast majority of them are there because they want to climb buildings on the US air bases and hang banners off them. But one or two of them are there training to climb and pot-hole because they think they’re going to go clambering around the Underground looking for the secret government bunkers. A bunch of them have been down already. They’ve got a very pretty list of locations.”

“Idiots.” Doyle was terse. “Pity we can’t just give them the map. Bound to be at HQ.”

Bodie grinned. “Cowley’s probably got the keys and the phone numbers, as well. We got any hot water?” He turned the taps on, filling the room with steam. Doyle, he noted with satisfaction, was leaning back against the wall and watched from narrowed eyes.

“So. What’s the story?”

The bath was full, and he stepped in gratefully and slipped down to cover as much of his body as he could. “The story? This is Bodger’s friends, mostly. He’s a lot more alert than I’d have given him credit for – better be careful of that one.”

Doyle nodded his head. “Noted.” 

“There were about forty of us there over the course of the day. Lots are student age or thereabouts. Postgrads. Postdocs. Lecturers at the local FE college. As I say, vast majority of them are just expecting to climb up in the air. But there were some older guys who know how to deal with tunnels. And a couple of instructors I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to – we were split into groups – but the one I met definitely knew his stuff. Does cave rescue. You got a pen? I’ve got a list of names and descriptions for you.”

Doyle fished a pen – and notebook - out of his back pocket. Bodie watched this procedure with interest. How did anything fit there?

“Okay. Shoot.” 

“Right. My new mate in cave rescue is Dave Wilberforce. Nice guy, offered to take me climbing. Turns out he’s done Ben Nevis too. We thought about going in the summer.”

“Bodie!” Doyle sounded exasperated. “Will you keep your mind on the job?” 

“I am!” Bodie was injured. “I am making important contacts here. Anyway. Another of the instructors was female. Ailsa Jenkins. We can get her details off Isobel – they were all girls together, that group. Bodger’s college friends: there was another Paul, astronomy and space science. There’s an Andrea Perrazzoli – male, not female – and an Erik Bohrmann. Both here on study visas. Perrazzoli’s in nuclear physics, Bohrmann’s doing international politics. A group from Birkbeck – say we don’t have to go there, Ray, I’m getting bored of nuclear-free campuses.…” He inserted a plaintive note into his voice and was gratified to see Doyle grin. “The organisers were a bit cagey about names. One was Bob Suggins, I think – they called him Suggers mostly. What’s the matter?”

“Suggers? Bob? Seriously?” 

“Yeah. Ring a bell?”

“A big clanging one. That can’t be right. Where’s that list from the Met?” Doyle disappeared from the room. Bodie amused himself by creating water fountains with his hands until Doyle returned. 

“He’s not on the list.” 

“List?”

“Yeah, the Met came through with a list of officers who had contacts or knowledge in the peace scene. If that’s Suggers, he’s Met. Through and through. Well, he was. And there’s no way he’s in this through politics or conviction. He was always first up when the force wanted some extra bodies to police the marches. Definitely up for a good kicking. Always thought he’d end up in the SPG, something like that.”

“What, the ones who bashed that anti-fascist guy to…?”

“To death, that’s right.” Doyle refused to be diverted onto questions of police aggression. “Okay, I’ll check that one out. Any more?”

Bodie thought and added a few more. “And then one last one, Ray. And you’ll want to know about this. In fact…” he whooshed up to sit straight, water streaming off him. “In fact, I want to know about this too. Couple from Birmingham. Terry and Catherine Morris. Isobel introduced us. Got talking. Isobel mentioned your name, made some comment about your hair –” 

Doyle looked exasperated. “Her boyfriend is a wannabe punk who can’t keep his Mohican up. And she comments on my hair?” 

Bodie carried on regardless. “– and they asked, “Doyle? Ray Doyle? From Derby? And asked me a whole pile of questions. Had you lived in Birmingham as a teenager?” Bodie looked at him. Doyle was poised, unmoving. “Good job I knew the answer to that one, isn’t it? After our little adventure there with your ‘one good copper’? Did you do trail biking? Did you ever get any more tropical fish? And so on and so on. They said how nice it was to hear about you again, Ray. Apparently you lost contact? They said they’d like to meet you again some time. So, Ray. Terry and Cath. Who are they?”

“Oh, bloody, fucking, hell.” Doyle banged the wall with his fist – Bodie winced – and stalked out of the bathroom. Bodie could hear him clashing things about in the kitchen and the slam of the window shut. After a few minutes, Bodie rose from the bath, pulled his towel around himself, picked up his clothes, and went to find Doyle. 

Doyle was leaning against the kitchen cupboards, arms folded, and his face glowering. The kettle was switched on, but Doyle had obviously got the whisky from the cupboard, as two glasses were on the surface, one recently emptied. 

Bodie was content to wait it out. 

Doyle glared mutinously. 

Bodie waited some more.

The kettle clicked off.

Doyle glared at the kettle, too.

Bodie rolled his eyes and made two cups of tea. As an afterthought, he retrieved the whisky and slopped some into each glass. “Right. Take your pick. The cup that cheers but not inebriates. Or something warmer. I could do with that myself,” he went on. “It’s still freezing in here and I’m not losing all the benefit of that bath.” 

Eventually Doyle stirred. “Yeah. All right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry. The op’s not in danger. We’re not blown. Well, not yet, anyway. Don’t think they’ve got any clue what I did later, so they won’t know about CI5. So that’s fine.”

“Ah.” Things were falling into place. “Are we getting anywhere near why you’ve been so irritable about this whole op? So grumpy?”

“I am not irritable!” Doyle flared up. Bodie just looked at him. Doyle shifted. “Yeah. Well.”

Bodie crowded forward, to trap Doyle in place, one arm either side of him and anchoring him to the counter.

“Get off, Bodie, you’re soaking me!” Bodie didn’t move. Eventually Doyle slumped and Bodie decided to release him. He stepped back.

“Let’s go through, yeah?” Doyle picked up his tea and moved into the living room. Bodie followed, shrugging himself into his clothes before picking up the conversation. Doyle was standing, not sitting. At least he wasn’t pacing. Bodie left him space, remaining a few metres from him. 

“So. Your knowledge of the peace movement is not from policing the anarchists in Limehouse Nuclear-Free Zone. Or not all. Come on. Spill.”

Doyle looked irked. “See, this nuclear-free zone rubbish is just typical! What possible change in policy comes from half the county councils in England announcing they’re nuclear-free? It’s about as effective as banning animal circuses from council land. This Cruise Watch thing, I’ll bet every road we go down will be on some nuclear-free council. What’s the point? And…”

“Ray,” Bodie intervened. “Back to the point.”

Doyle paused, face twisted into a scowl. “Oh yeah. All right.” He paced a bit. “See, it’s a bit embarrassing. Dunno where to start.”

“How about when to start?”

“Eh?”

“When.”

“Always. Ever since I was a little kid.” He came to a halt, staring out of the window. “My parents were old-fashioned socialists: Dad came back from the war swearing ‘never again’; my mum marched for wages for housework, public access to private land, equal rights for… well, everything, and the pair of them joined CND as soon as it was formed. Before, almost. They were on the first Aldermaston march. Way back in 1958.” He scowled. “So was I. I was ten.”

Bodie laughed in sympathy, imagining a young child, adrift in a mass march of thousands, wondering when he would be home for the holidays his schoolfellows were enjoying.

“It’s not funny, Bodie. Oh, I’m not knocking them – well, I dunno, I suppose I am.” 

“You haven’t yet,” Bodie assured him.

“…but where all the other kids at school went to Cubs and Scouts, or the Youth Club, I was in the bloody Woodcraft Folk.”

“The who?”

“Woodcraft Folk. Sort of like Scouts, but all about peace and brotherhood across the world. Shades of anti-establishment, left-wing, environmental, all that. It probably wasn’t that bad, but I wanted to be a Scout like my mates. Instead I was in this, with the kids of the sort of people my parents knew. It was the same with everything. We were always slightly different. I remember my mates did semaphore in the Scouts. Well, you know the first two semaphore signs I ever learnt? Long before they did that?”

Bodie shook his head. Doyle held his arms out and down, and then vertically up and down. 

“N and D?” Bodie was baffled.

“Yeah. N and D. Look at this bloody badge of yours.” He thrust his jacket towards Bodie. Bodie looked at the plethora of badges attached to it, baffled.

“And?”

“Put N and D on top of each other, and put a circle around them, and what do you get?”

Light dawned. “Oh. The CND logo. Nuclear disarmament. That’s clever.”

“Yeah, well, maybe. But it’s just another thing. Another example. I got fed up of it. I mean, they’re decent folks, my mam and dad. Worked all their lives, stood up for injustice when they saw it…”

“Sounds like more of them rubbed off on you than you thought.”

“Shut up, Bodie. They did all that, and good for them. I’m proud of them, I suppose.” He didn’t sound sure. “But some of the rest of them. Yeah, there’s the Quakers, and the church bazaars, and the ones who organise things and get things done. But there’s the rent-a-mob, and the anarchists – not the intellectuals like Tom – there were loads of them back in the day – the thugs and vandals, they’re just there for a good turn-up with the police… and the middle class wankers who think the police don’t know anything, but they’re first to dial 999 when they need us. Argh.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. 

“So… you joined the police as an act of rebellion?” Bodie remembered a pensive Doyle once telling him he’d joined to get some discipline. He couldn’t hide his amusement. 

Doyle looked at him for a long moment, then his mouth quirked in a grin. “Spose I did, really.”

“What about the knife fight?” 

“Knife fight? Oh, that. Yeah. Only had the knife on me because I broke the blade on my mum’s and had stolen her a new one. Needed to replace it before she found out, and this bastard kid didn’t want to let me by.” 

Bodie shook his head. An odd childhood it might have been, but there was something about that ten year old’s parents, taking him along to march for the future they wanted for him, that appealed. There hadn’t even been Scout troops for him, let alone alternatives. Strange to think that diligent detective Doyle had been able to leave a life of non-conformity and idealism and distrust from society and to fit so neatly into the Met, the very body that policed those demonstrations so heavily. 

And yet, Doyle hadn’t fitted, had he? He had been one of the many on the force to object to the few on the take, but he had been one of the very few to do something about it. In the process, he had lost everything. He had been lucky that Cowley was interested in those police officers willing to trust their own judgement over pressure from the job. 

Bodie had left a childhood that was consistent only in its dreariness and tedium. He had never been sure as a child that his parents really even knew who he was, what he wanted, how he felt. It had been no trouble at all to forge his father’s signature on the papers to get him to sea, and it had been as a solitary teenager that Bodie had started to develop his own ideals and his own identity, buffeted on all sides by an ever-changing world. Doyle at least had had a stable family and background to test himself against.

His tone was light as he responded.

“And to think I had to leave home to find some excitement.”

Doyle shrugged. “Maybe. I didn’t want that kind of excitement then. I wanted to be normal.”

“Mmm.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“What?”

“Not sure you’d ever be that normal, mate. But then, I wouldn’t want you to be that normal. Now then, what are we going to do about this Morris pair? 

“That’ll be Uncle Terry and Aunty Cath. Not my real relatives,” he explained. “But when we were in Birmingham, they were friends of my parents. I suppose,” he heaved a sigh, “I suppose I’d better make use of them, really. You seeing them again?”

“They said they’d be at the next Friends of the Earth meeting.”

“That’d fit. Okay, I’ll catch them then.” His shoulders relaxed. 

“Good. Drink your tea. Before you spill it.” 

Doyle looked recalcitrant, and then faintly shamefaced. Finally he took a mouthful, watching Bodie over the rim as he slurped. Theatrically, Bodie winced. He knew his cue. 

* * * 

Three nights later, Bodie blew on a couple of mugs of hot soup provided by a pair of local residents – wherever they might live in such a rural location – and wandered across the tarmac to Doyle, who was out of their vehicle and pacing around to keep warm. Even with only the glancing light of a couple of torches, he could pick him out, among the knot of other activists waiting for the signal to get into the cars and move. It had taken them less than two hours to get out of London in the night-time quiet, only to find themselves waiting around for at least that long. “How’s it going?”

“All right. Someone’s down at the base watching. There’s a peace camp there. Looks like they’re putting a convoy together, so we’ll be on later tonight.”

“And then we follow? And… what?”

“Try not to get shot.” Bodie could see Doyle’s silhouette tilt his head in amusement before carrying on. “While you were cosying up to the Castles – thanks, by the way, I needed that –” he drained his soup with a slurp and thrust the mug back to Bodie “– I was getting my instructions. Did you know,” he lowered his voice and mimicked the horrified tones of Isobel, “Cruise convoys are guarded by men with guns. Police with guns! On the roads of Britain! In the middle of the night. They’re allowed to shoot! In England! This is what comes of allowing American air bases on British soil!”

Bodie could hear Doyle’s irritation and kept his voice amused and reassuring. “She wants them unarmed and in the Friday rush hour traffic jam on the A1, does she? I take it you left yours behind.”

Doyle patted his armpit.

“Ray…”

“What? It’s cold, I’ve got my jacket on, I’ll just make sure not to get arrested and searched. Not in front of this lot, at least. Anyway, are you telling me yours is back home under the bed?”

“Er… No.”

“Well, then. Anyway, yeah, they’ll leave the base, we’ll get in the way, hinder it, and if they get past, we’ll follow. Cause trouble. Track them to the next base or wherever they’re going for manoeuvres. Try not to get stopped by the police.”

“Plod here as well, are they?”

“Usually, apparently. If it looks like they’re heading long distance or something, I’ve got a list of names to ring when we find a phone box, and whereabouts they live, and we wake them up and they’ll be waiting on the likely roads, to jump around and get in the way generally.”

“Very organised. And the point of all this is…?”

“Don’t start, Bodie.” Doyle’s voice was sour. “I’m just the driver.” His tone lightened. “Piss me off and I’ll leave you at the phone box.”

Bodie grinned happily. “Want some more soup?” He crossed the road to where a battered Fiat 500 was parked. “That’s good, that, Mrs Castle. Thanks. Any chance of a refill?”

“You’re in luck, Mr Bodie.” She poured soup into the mugs.

“Just Bodie.”

“You’re in luck, just Bodie, then.” She smiled, her formality falling away. “I haven’t seen you here before, dear.”

“Only recently involved. You do this a lot, do you? Feed the troops before the chase?”

“Quite a bit, dear, yes. I know all my regular boys and girls.” She cast a glance vaguely around the road, taking in the scatter of cars and a variety of passengers, some snoozing, others stretching their legs. The road was narrow with no markings on it, and overhung by trees which screened it off from the fields to the sides. On such a minor road, the half-dozen parked cars seemed crowded, with every chance of blocking any large vehicles that tried to find their way down it onto an A-road, no matter how neatly and responsibly the cars were tucked into the verges. Bodie followed her look, gazing around as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Focussing on one particular figure, his eyes narrowed. “Mmm,” he agreed absently. “Well, thanks, Mrs C. Better take this back to the driver.”

Sipping the soup out of both mugs,which he justified on the grounds that it would otherwise only spill over and burn his fingers, he headed back purposefully to the car. 

“Ray. Don’t look too soon but over there. Leaning against the white Mini-van. Cigarette. That’s Suggers. The climber at the planning camp the other week. Recognise him?”

Doyle arched casually round. “Well, well. Yeah. That’s him.” He pulled his lower lip. “Reckon it’s worth saying hello?”

“Don’t see why not. Does he know what you’re up to now?”

“Unlikely. No sign of movement at the base?”

“Not so far.”

“Okay.”

Doyle pushed off from the van giving every sign of a man in need of a tree to aim at, and Bodie watched him pace swiftly beyond the other man to the hedgerow bordering the road. He slipped through it. On his emergence a few minutes later, he meandered back at a more leisurely pace until he caught the other’s eye. Bodie strained his ears. 

“Bob?”

“Yeah?” Suggers was looking blank, and then relaxed slightly. “Jesus, if it isn’t… Doyle? Ray Doyle? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Driving,” Doyle answered succinctly. “Fancy meeting you in a place like this, eh? Would never have pegged you for this. Bit of a change of heart, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well. Could say the same about you.” 

Bodie watched Doyle as he stopped to face Suggers, who looked at him cautiously.

“You still in the job, Doyle?”

“Nah, moved on from that. Years ago. It’s not what it was.”

“No, I imagine not.”

“You not in it any more either? Do this lot know you were? Don’t want to drop you in it.”

“You’re a mate, Ray. Probably best not to mention it, no, but it won’t matter.” His tone was idle, curious. “What about you? What you up to now?” 

Bodie had seen that question coming, and forestalled any reply, stepping forward and calling over the road. “Ray! Ray, I need the keys.”

Doyle’s head swung round. “What you done now?”

“Boot’s locked. Left the map in it, didn’t I?” Bodie tried to sound plaintive, knowing perfectly well that it was on the front seat, folded in with their more standard AA map. The map he was talking about had been distributed by the campaigners and was marked with a number of elements not on the AA map: US air force bases, runways, and roadside phone boxes in particular.

Doyle sighed. “Can’t take you anywhere. Here you go. See you, Bob.” He sauntered over to Bodie, rummaging in the pocket of his flying jacket and opening the boot wide. Bodie watched Suggers from beyond Doyle. In the gloom all he could see was the posture of the man, who was apparently gazing in their direction. Doyle’s lowered voice broke into his thoughts. 

“You can’t really have left it in here. And you in the SAS and all.”

“Oh, we don’t have maps in the SAS,” Bodie assured him. “Stars and tree bark, that’s us.”

He knew Doyle was grinning. The warmth kept him going through the rest of the long wait, until finally a shout went up as the gates opened and the convoy of lorries emerged to its secret destination. Police cars escorted it, mysteriously getting in the way as the Cruise Watch participants tried to keep up with the convoy, until Doyle, cursing, demanded Bodie forget about the stars and tree bark and find him a short cut with the map. 

They careered off into the network of B roads, spending the rest of the night finding short cuts to the next phone boxes and calling – and waking – a bewildering variety of people to join the effort, while keeping the convoy of lorries and their police escorts in sight. Bodie proved able to read maps even as the car bounced through the dark and the torchlight shone on every surface except the page the maps were folded to, and Doyle followed his directions unhesitatingly as they rattled through quiet lanes, took roundabouts at appalling speed, and chased the convoy in the direction of the motorway. Bodie thoroughly enjoyed it all. 

* * * 

It was almost six before they made it back to their flat, Bodie rubbing his hands in amusement as he went over the events of the night, and Doyle grinning ruefully at Bodie’s wakefulness and good mood. They were silent as they trooped up the stairs to their door, but Bodie picked up the thread as soon as they were in. 

“I reckon nearly losing them in Bedfordshire was the best bit – good save that was!” As the door closed behind them, he planted a huge kiss on Doyle, aiming for his lips but catching his cheek as much.

“Get off, Bodie! Give me a minute, at least!” 

“I enjoyed that, Ray. Can we do it again?”

“What, last night?” Doyle had headed straight to the kettle and was dropping teabags into mugs. “You don’t fool me. You just want a chance to drive. Cross between James Hunt and James Bond, that’s you.”

Bodie grinned. “Good fun to do that with nobody shooting at us.”

“Or us shooting at them. True. Nice to come back with the windscreen still in place and the tyres all intact. Mind you, got to remember.” Doyle slopped water and milk into the mugs, then lifted a finger and repeated his imitation of the previous night. This time, his irritation had given way to humour. “Guns. Men with guns. On the streets of Britain!”

“And in the beds in Britain too.” Bodie came up behind Doyle, who had dropped his flying jacket over a chair and whose holster was now visible. He slid his fingers beneath it. “Need disarming, you do.” He felt Doyle tense beneath him, and paused. Doyle took advantage of the pause to gulp a mouthful of tea, put the mug down abruptly, and turn beneath Bodie. His gaze was amused.

“Oh yeah? This a mutual disarmament, is it? Or you hoping for unilateral?”

“Well…” Bodie offered. “I suppose we can negotiate.” He started to walk Doyle back to the bedroom. 

Doyle grinned. “I know your idea of negotiation. The sort that leaves you with the advantage. You don’t fool me. That’s my kind too.” He reached for Bodie’s shoulders, and started to alter their joint course. “We’ll see who comes out on top.” 

* * * 

After a scant hour of sleep – following a rather more active hour beforehand – Bodie heard Doyle sigh and head off to the bathroom and then kitchen. He left enough time for Doyle to have started making breakfast, and then followed. 

“Morning.”

Doyle focussed on him. “Morning.” He was interrupted by a wide yawn. “God. Supposed to call in this morning, aren’t we? Do me a favour?” He poured a second cup from the teapot, passed it over to Bodie, and nodded towards the hall. 

Bodie nodded. He grinned as Doyle dolefully discovered the teapot was unable to provide him with a third cup, and went to call in. 

“Betty! Gooood morning! How are you? Good, good. Listen Betty, have we got those names back from the computer? We have? Great.” He pulled the telephone pad towards him. “Go on.” 

Betty’s voice came back reeling off details. 

“Morning, 3.7. Yes, I have. Are you ready? Dave Wilberforce: tree surgeon, a string of arrests for trespass, one charge of resisting arrest, yes, he’s a volunteer with Berkshire Cave Rescue. Andrea Perrazzoli, nothing on him, but his sister is a member of a lot of related groups, Animal Aid, Compassion in World Farming, Friends of the Earth, and so on. Your Susan Mackenzie has shown up on the magistrates’ records for the week, incidentally – another public order offence…”

“Has she? Oh, dearie me. What’s she done now? Never mind, I’ll find out about that later. Go on.”

Betty continued down the list, Bodie jotting notes down. “And I’m still waiting for – oh, wait a minute, Bodie…” Betty’s voice sounded flustered. 

Bodie waited. There was a rattling noise and then Cowley came down the line. 

“Is that Doyle? Bodie? You said you’d encountered a Robert Suggins? Ex-Met?”

“Bodie here. Yes, sir. Outdoor activities sort of stuff for young activists…”

“Aye. Well. He’s not just ex-Met. It took a while to come back with the information – there’s a block on his name on the computer – but he’s MI5.”

Bodie groaned. MI5 meant trouble. Always. 

Cowley’s voice carried on. “And he’s not on the lists that either MI5 or the Met provided us of officers with leads into the peace network. So whatever he’s doing, be careful. We need to find out about it. Don’t approach him for the moment, though, not until I have a clearer idea of…”

“Er – sorry, sir. Already made contact. Couldn’t be helped. Last night. Would have looked odd if Doyle hadn’t said something to him.”

“Tch!” Cowley’s exasperation was audible. “Ah, well. The best-laid plans. All right. I’ll expect your report shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” He put the receiver down. “Any tea on the go?”

Doyle, returning from the kitchen, nodded down at the teapot he was carrying. “Here you go. What’s the news?”

Bodie relayed the detail, Doyle’s eyes flickering as he absorbed the news. There was a particularly irked scowl as Doyle received the information that his parents’ friends from Birmingham were on the ‘well-meaning but ineffectual’ list – “I could have told you that twenty years ago,” he observed sourly, “And they haven’t changed a bit. They were exactly the same when I saw them at the FOE meeting the other night,” – and a glare of incredulity at the news that Suggins was a member of MI5.

“Oh, you have to be kidding. Hell. Has he looked us up too?” 

“Might have run my name through before now, but he won’t have had time to do you. He only saw you last night. Wonder what he’s up to.”

“MI5 playing its own little games again, I’d say.”

“Mmm. Following the same whisper as us, though, or something completely different?”

“Good question. And on that note, are we any further forward?”

“I’m not. I’ve been to every possible group meeting in allied groups. Peace groups, environmental groups, Friends of the Earth, Amnesty International, Peace Pledge Union, Compassion in World Farming… Closest I’ve got is the animal rights brigade and some of the environmentalists – they’re definitely up for a barney, some of that lot. World’s over-populated, need to lose a few, the odd human death here or there is morally acceptable in the cause of saving mink, that sort of thing.”

“Mink?” Bodie was puzzled. “We don’t have mink in England.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know that either. But we do. Fur farms. They go and free the mink. Need big bloody gloves, though. Apparently they bite. But anyway. I could see some of them spreading radioactive slime about. I just can’t see why.” Doyle chewed his lip. 

Bodie rose to rummage in the biscuit tin.

“Hey. No more cakes?” He was surprised to find himself disappointed.

Doyle glanced up and his expression lightened. “I don’t think our vegan baking friend can keep up with your stomach. Did you say she’s been up in front of the magistrates again? You can always express your sympathy and ask for more cakes. Or the recipe. Yeah. Make her some cakes. We’ll be seeing her today anyway. She’ll be on the stall this afternoon. Thinking of which…” he rummaged through a battered calendar. “It’s your turn to leaflet today.” 

Bodie groaned. And then brightened as he considered which badge he could bring home for Doyle from the stall.

* * * 

“Whose turn is it next week?” 

“Well, since Bodie has demonstrated that even a man can learn to cook…” Isobel couldn’t help herself, Bodie decided. She just had to make comments about the sexes at every opportunity. Even when Bodie had just baked his new speciality for the group meetings yet again. 

“Always been able to, ducky,” he camped automatically, this time earning a glare from Sue, who did not approve of stereotyping. “Sorry. Go on. I can see what’s coming. But this will be the fourth week in a row that I’ve provided the supplies. Man cannot run on cake alone.”

“You can,” noted Doyle, helpfully. “Ignore him, we’ll be happy to host. Leave your notes and stuff here if you want. And thanks for the recipe, Sue, you’ll make a vegan of him yet.”

Sue looked happy. “Nice to have someone making me cake. Without an ulterior motive, or anything. I mean,” she gestured between Doyle and Bodie. “I know he’s just being…” 

“I know,” Doyle reassured her. Bodie still wasn’t sure what he thought of being rendered harmless by virtue of his involvement with Doyle. It wasn’t as though he had lost his eye for pretty girls, after all. Despite that, he gave her his best non-threatening smile. She carried on, happily.

“And, I meant to say, thanks for helping with the fine last month.”

“No problem,” Bodie told her. “Can’t have you locked up for sitting down in the middle of the road.” 

“It was totally non-violent,” Sue emphasised. “According to the group constitution. Non-violent direct action. Against the patriarchal war machine. There was no reason for them to get their truncheons out.”

Sue seemed oblivious to any double entendre. Bodie manfully resisted the temptation to point it out to her. “Yeah, well, that’s why you don’t want me on these things. Someone gets their truncheon out, I’ll be hitting back.”

“Also, you’re not a woman,” Doyle reminded Bodie helpfully. “Lesbians Against the Bomb is one of the few badges you can’t legitimately wear.” Discovering that his badges now proclaimed his opposition to the seal cull, Doyle had recently regained the initiative, sneaking a ‘For fox sake, ban hunting’ badge onto Bodie’s leather jacket. Expecting retaliation, he was checking his own daily for new arrivals.

“You do have quite a few badges, don’t you, Bodie?” John was sorting his papers, and then placed them in a tidy pile. “You two really seem to have thrown yourselves into the thick of things. I mean… it can only have been three months, and yet here you are, baking cakes for the liaison committee and getting ready to marshal on the demo next week.”

Bodie grinned, all external unconcern. “Yeah, well, whatever you do, do it… well, I reckon. Throw yourself in. Only way.”

John looked at him again. “That must be it, yes. We’ll be seeing you at Meeting for Worship at this rate.”

Bodie threw his hands up. “Not me, sorry. Not a turn the other cheek type, I’m afraid. Hit back, I do. Like I said.”

“More importantly, what are the chances of Bodie sitting in total silence for an hour?” asked Doyle, coming up behind him. Bodie aimed for him by reflex, and Doyle grabbed his hand and arm. He leaned his chin on Bodie’s shoulder. Bodie automatically relaxed for him, comfortable now with Doyle’s passes at him in public – well, in private, at least, although as far as Bodie was concerned, ‘in front of anyone else at all’ would always be public. “You…” 

“I think you’re proving your own point there, mate.” Doyle straightened. “Right, John, are you leaving those with us?”

“I am. Safest place, I think. Don’t you?”

* * * 

“I think John’s wondering about us.” Doyle was sombre as they packed things away after the meeting. 

“Well, I would.”

“You wonder about everyone.”

“Yeah, well. That’s the job.”

“Who are you wondering about now, then?”

“Apart from you? Bodger. Where was he tonight? Have he and Isobel split up? She’s been even more sullen than usual. Has he got reports to write? Can you even write reports in maths? Just imagine, ‘I can report that 723 doubled successfully turned into 1456’.”

“Forty-six.”

“Eh?”

“Fourteen hundred and forty-six. Not fifty-six.”

“Oh.” Bodie thought. “Yeah.”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “And to think I trusted you to map-read our way through the police escort last month.”

“That’s a different sort of numbers. Anyway. Bodger. What’s up with him? I wanted to get hold of him, ask about those climbing camps. Put myself forward and find out what’s going on with that.”

“Yeah. Want me to come along?”

“You want to?”

“Dangling off ropes halfway down a quarry face pretending I’m halfway down the shaft to a nuclear bunker? God, yes. Can’t think of anything better.” He paused and eyed Bodie. “Haven’t done as much climbing as you, but I’ve done a bit. Only reason I can see not to is not to put the wind up Suggins. I assume he’s still involved.”

“Yeah, me too. Better find out for sure. Okay, we’ll go looking for Bodger. Any idea where to start? Have you seen him recently?”

* * * 

“Get that, will you?” Bodie was removing his latest baking experiment from the oven and inspecting it critically – if he was going to have to bake cakes, he was damn well going to bake good ones – when the doorbell rang. He listened with half an ear, and then became alert.

“Have you seen Paul, Ray?” 

“Isobel? What’s up? Come in. You don’t want people staring at you.”

Bodie heard a ‘What?’ of surprise from Doyle, before muffled sobbing and awkward ‘There, theres’. Moving to the corridor, he saw a startled Doyle patting Isobel’s hair, her head pressed into Doyle’s chest and her shoulders shuddering. Doyle looked over her to Bodie in consternation. 

Bodie pantomimed bafflement, and indicated the living room. As Doyle drew the sobbing woman towards a chair, he found a box of tissues and then escaped to the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

When he returned, she had regained some of her composure and was blurting out her story.

“…and then, then, he said, he couldn’t tell me. It was a cell, and he couldn’t tell me. And… and… I don’t know what they’re going to do. But –” she paused, and hiccupped slightly “– I’m worried. I’m really worried. Paul’s so passionate about things.”

Bodger, passionate? Bodie considered that. He couldn’t see it. But maybe he was. 

“And, and, all the ropes and helmets have gone. We were storing them for the club. The climbing society at university. I’ve been complaining about it for ages.” She managed a tearful smile before her mouth crumpled again. “But I can’t help wondering. Is he about to do something silly?”

“Hey. Hey.” Doyle gave her a slight shake. “He loves you. Yes?” Isobel looked at him hopefully. “Yes?” She nodded. “So. It’ll all be fine. Look. You had a row. He went for a walk. It’s a man thing. We do that. We’re…” Bodie could see Doyle steeling himself. “We’re not so good with talking. Are we?” 

“But you… you and Bodie, you’re so…”

So what? Bodie was baffled. He rather suspected Doyle was too. 

“Ah. Yeah. Well. Maybe. Maybe that’s because…” Doyle shrugged. 

Bodie winced. Playing the poof was all very well, but now he knew how Doyle felt about his campier public comments. Vulnerable, somehow. Bodie wasn’t sure how he felt about Doyle suggesting they had some sort of feminine touchy-feely side because of… because of that. 

Doyle soothed her some more, and sent Bodie for one of his cakes. (“Don’t tell Sue,” admitted Isobel. “But she’s right. It’s nice when someone makes you cakes. Vegan or not.”) She stayed for half an hour, first Doyle and then both of them cheering her with takes of outsmarting the Cambridgeshire police vans or the time a sympathetic passer-by had seen a drenched Sue leafleting on the high street, popped into a café and emerged to press into her hands a cup of Bovril. Sue had been distraught, but thanked him politely before passing the meat extract drink into Bodie’s willing hands. 

Having finally pushed Isobel back out of the flat, with instructions to ring that evening to let them know whether she had found him, made up with him (“Never mind about made out with him, though,” he added firmly. “We don’t need to know that”), and generally found out what was happening, Doyle leaned back against the door and shook his head. 

“Agony aunt on top of everything else.”

“You were wonderful, Ray. Just like Claire Rayner. Do you do pregnancy advice as well?”

Doyle pulled a face. “New career again. Might need to start if we don’t get anywhere on this. We started off so well, looking back. And what have we got? Nothing! It’s been three months. Okay, there are compensations…” Bodie grinned back at him, well aware of the compensations. But Doyle carried on. “But I miss my flat. I miss my Capri. I miss…”

“You miss getting to shoot things? Being shot at?” 

“No! Well, yes,” Doyle admitted. “Not being shot at, exactly. But… you know what I mean.”

The trouble was, Bodie did know. They were getting bogged down. Watching Doyle deal with a distraught abandoned girlfriend was amusing, but wasn’t getting them any further. Undercover freed them from a lot of routine and from unexpected summonses to Cowley’s office, but at least an unexpected summons to the Cow often ended up in a complete change of direction, whether it was bodyguarding a visiting dignitary or hunting a grass through a series of squats. “I’ll call in to HQ. See if there’s any news their end.”

* * * 

There had been no news, beyond the confirmation that Bodger had returned, was apparently suitably penitent, and the climbing gear was still missing. The liaison committee met again, this time to appoint marshals and organisers for the upcoming demonstration. Bodie was amused to see Doyle struggling not to offer suggestions that would demonstrate his long familiarity with Met policing techniques, while at the same time providing concrete assistance.

“If I’m planning a demo, I’m doing it properly,” he told Bodie later. “I’m not having some Met arsehole stop me marching. Or dragging Thomas down a side street to beat him up out of sight. Did you know, the man’s 76? You’d never believe it, would you? He remembers the Spanish Civil War.”

“Should get him and Cowley together. They’d have lots to talk about.”

“Yeah. They’d have been on the same side. Weird, that, eh?”

Bodie shrugged. “You were on the same side as the Met once.”

“I still am.” Doyle was stung.

“Are you?”

“Well… Not when it comes to beating up pensioners, no.”

“Attaboy. Nightcap before bed? Big day tomorrow.”

* * * 

“Snifter to keep you warm?”

Amid the tumult of the crowd, the shouts, the klaxons, the chanting, and the occasional jeers from inconvenienced tourists unable to see Eros as the march surged around the monument in the centre of Piccadilly Circus, it was hard for Bodie to make himself heard as he kept pace with Doyle. It was interesting being one of the people stopping the crowd, for once. Normally he was the one in the Capri, swearing and finding a way around the centre of town. He smiled and waved breezily to one of the ranks of grim-faced policeman charged with preserving the integrity of London, before clapping his arm about Doyle’s shoulder and passing a hip flask over to him.

“There you go. Last of the good stuff.”

“You’re a mate. Ta. How’s it going down in your section?” 

“Like clockwork. They’re all marching in sync, half of them with their medals on. They don’t need me. Thought I’d come and keep you warm.”

“Bodie!”

“Keep you company, I mean.” He grinned. “Mind, we could go and find the Gays and Lesbians against the Bomb, and…”

“Get out of it, Bodie. Liaison committee, yes. At a public demo, no. They’ll be dragging us apart, kicking the shit out of us.” 

Bodie could believe that. 

“Hang on a minute, we don’t need to find them, they’re coming to us.” He tightened his grip around Doyle, wishing Doyle’s flying jacket wasn’t so thick, and indicated Sue, who was hurrying backwards along the coil of marchers. “Hey, Sue! How’s it going? Drink?” He retrieved the flask from Doyle and gestured towards her with it.

“Bodie!” Sue looked visibly relieved. “Ray! Hey, listen, big trouble. Big, big trouble. Can you peel off and meet me and Isobel back at the Wimpy where we met up this morning? As soon as possible. It’s urgent.”

“What, you lost the leaders for the die-in? I’m marshalling here…”

“No, the die-in’s going to be at Whitehall, we always change it on the day, so the police…” She shook herself. “You know that. No, much more urgent. We’ve been infiltrated.”

“Er, what?” He kept his eyes away from Doyle, knowing Doyle would be doing the same. All attention on her, instead.

“Infiltrated!” She had to shout over the noise. “Get down to the Wimpy. I’ve got to find Thomas and–” 

Bodie shook his head. “Thomas said he was making his own way to Trafalgar Square. Said too much planning and organisation for a demo was contrary to his principles of anarchy.”

Sue let out a sobbing laugh. “He would. Right, see you as soon as I can make it. Just got to tell a couple of other people first, change some of the arrangements before they box us in.” She looked about her urgently. “Oh god, they don’t want us going down that way. They’re trying to divert us. Damn. Which way out?”

Doyle was looking around dubiously too. “Bodie, give us a leg-up?”

“What?”

“Now, Bodie.”

Bodie took the point and moved to one side, to let Doyle clamber up him and survey the crowd. He was down in seconds. He turned to Bodie. 

“Yeah, I think we can get down Shaftesbury Avenue, cut left into Soho, and get round that way. Sue, aim for the Poets for Peace banner and then cut behind the yellow car.”

“Don’t get arrested,” added Bodie, “We can’t bail you out again, you’re breaking the bank.”

Sue laughed, and ducked up to peck him on the cheek, before vanishing into the crowd.

Bodie put his hand up to his cheek and then turned to Doyle, spreading his arms wide.

“I’m sorry, Ray. My heart has been stolen by another.”

“You daft bastard. Let’s get moving.”

They darted sideways and through the police line onto Shaftesbury Avenue, then left into Wardour Street. It was strangely populated by a mixture of tourists, shoppers, and marchers who had evidently just popped aside to do a bit of shopping, or to grab a coffee from one of Soho’s numerous coffee shops. They cut through Sheraton Street and emerged onto Oxford Street and into normal Saturday central London. Shoppers hurried, headscarves on or umbrellas up. There was no sign of demonstrations, marchers, or police lines. Bodie pulled up.

“Like another world, eh? They’ve got no idea.” 

Doyle shook his head. “I know. All that planning. What a waste of effort. Now do you see, Bodie? Waste of time.” He paused. “You got your R/T with you? In case we need back-up?”

“No. Nor my ID. Got my…” he patted his armpit.

“Me too. So – what do you reckon’s going on? Not us, I presume?” 

Bodie shrugged. “If it is, bluff it out, I reckon. Guns are because we’re not nice people, don’t ask us too many questions, but we’re serious about nuclear weapons. That should cover it.”

Doyle nodded. “Right. Let’s get over there.”

They darted through the tourists and traffic, neither of which seemed particularly perturbed by their race between them. It took them no more than five minutes to reach their destination. 

“There it is,” Bodie caught Doyle’s arm. 

Doyle nodded. “And there she is.” Before the window stood a small knot of people, most of whom Bodie recognised from the morning’s last-minute planning. Several were talking animatedly. Others, Isobel included, were pacing nervously.

“Doesn’t look like a lynch mob, does it?” 

Doyle shook his head. “Even if it is, we can handle this lot. Oi!” He raised an arm and waved at Isobel as they hurried over the road. 

“Oh, Ray!”

For a second time, Bodie watched Isobel fall into Doyle’s arms. What was this fatal attraction Doyle had for her? He couldn’t see it himself. Well, he could see what he saw in Doyle. Energy, focus, competence, comradeship, a body with strength to match his own, and danger held in check. The knowledge that they were a match for each other, physically and emotionally. He just couldn’t imagine what Isobel saw. 

“Hey, hey.” Doyle lifted her away. “Come on, Isobel, what’s up?”

“It’s that climbing guy. Bob.” 

Bodie saw Doyle stiffen, his hands on her shoulders. His voice became less reassuring, more urgent.

“Suggins? Yeah? What about him?”

“He’s got Paul and friends all ready for an expedition today – they’re supposed to be going in through the tunnels while the police are all focussed on the demo.”

“Tunnels? Where? Where?” he repeated, shaking her slightly. “What tunnels?”

“Waterloo somewhere. Well, no. Lambeth. I’ve got the address where they were meeting.” She produced a crumpled bit of paper. “They’ve got a way in through the maintenance tunnels, and they think they can map their way to another government shelter.”

Bodie stiffened. A shadow passed across Doyle's face. “Oh my god. And…?”

“Well, Paul’s set off already. And I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on police movements around the march. You know, stop us getting corralled in.”

Doyle nodded, impatient. “And?”

“And that’s when I saw him. Bob. Suggers. Whatever his name is, the bastard. All matey and pally with a bunch of Special Branch.”

“Eh? How do you know they were Special Branch?” 

She looked at him as if he were mad. “Everyone knows! Well, okay, not everyone. But enough of us know enough of them by sight. The old hands, at least. And when they’re all together, you can see they all know each other. And we’ve got cameras too. They might be filming us, but we can photograph them. Have you never seen the picture library? I think Tanya’s got it at the moment.”

“No. Anyway, go on. So Bob Suggers is MI – no, Special Branch, you think?”

Bodie winced. _Careful, Doyle._

“Special Branch, yes. Or an informer. Some kind of infiltrator, anyway. And he’s got Paul and friends doing something, and I’m _worried_ , Ray.”

Doyle caught Bodie’s eyes, then turned back to Isobel. “Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. Bodie and I can climb, too. I take it you’re going to spread the word about Suggins?”

She nodded, mute.

“Good. Now, don’t come following us, and don’t come trying to find Bodger. Er. Paul. We’ll get over there, and we’ll do what we can. Pass the word around about Suggins, and make sure the march doesn’t descend into chaos. Eh?”

Isobel stood straighter. “I went on those camps. I can climb as well as anyone else there.”

“Oh, god help us. I’m sure you can, Isobel, but we need you here. And we’ve done a lot more climbing than a couple of weekends away. Stay here!”

Doyle held his hand out. She surrendered the paper. He glanced at it, stared in disbelief – “Oh, for crying out loud, that’s right next door to the official residence of… “ – and then turned to Bodie. “All right, Spiderman, let’s get going. Where’s the nearest tube?” 

* * *

 

“Feels all wrong steaming to the rescue on the bloody tube.” 

“Snob. Anyway, we haven’t got the car, and the buses’ll be snarled up for hours yet. Just be thankful we didn’t have to change lines.” Doyle was looking about him at the Waterloo mainline concourse. “God, I hate this bloody station. Where’s out? Out towards Lambeth, I mean.”

By luck or judgement they found themselves at the right exit and tumbling in the direction of Lambeth. Bodie was still reeling at the idea of Bodger and his friends trying to find nuclear bunkers for the benefit of Lambeth Palace. Half running, half walking, they took only minutes to reach Archbishop’s Park, where they tried to slow to an amble appropriate to a Saturday afternoon walk. 

They paced warily through.

“So,” Bodie muttered quietly, “They’re looking for nuclear bunkers next to Lambeth Palace? For the Archbishop of Canterbury? Exactly how mad are they?”

“Well, we do have nuclear bunkers, you know.”

“Yeah, but there?”

“Where’d you put them instead, then?”

It seemed a promising topic of debate, but they were cut short when Doyle nudged Bodie.

“There they are, look. By the bandstand.”

Bodie winced. “Not exactly inconspicuous, are they? All belted up and carrying hard hats?”

“Perhaps they’re going to claim they’re trimming the branches. That’s a bloody big tree.”

“It doesn’t take six men to prune a tree. Does it? I mean, I can see Dave there. He can do it on his own, I’ll bet.” Bodie strained to distinguish Bodger and to recognise the others.

“Oh, look.” Doyle had been looking elsewhere. He hit Bodie lightly in the chest. “Suggers is arriving.” He frowned. “Wonder what’s in that box? Is it…” He trailed off as he struggled to see. When he spoke again, the jovial tone had slipped away and his voice was sharp. “Bodie, is that box chained to his wrist?”

Bodie focussed on the new arrival. “Looks horribly like it. I don’t like the smell of this.”

“Bomb, you reckon?”

“Well, something sensitive. What else do you chain to your wrists? If not money or the Cabinet minutes?” Suggins was walking purposefully towards the half-dozen men. 

“I dunno. What would MI5 be doing with bombs? Has the Archbishop been denouncing them from the pulpit? I can’t see it, myself.” Doyle bit his lip. “I was going to suggest we waited to find out what’s going on, but I’m not sure now.”

Bodie didn’t like it either. “Hang about, they’re moving. Can we get closer?”

“Better had.”

They turned and walked, meandering towards the bandstand. The group were moving out of sight, to the shade behind a squat brick building used in the summer for selling ice cream and snacks. The area was cut off from the main aspect of the park. 

Doyle paused, Bodie behind him. “Both sides?” 

“Yeah.” Bodie watched Doyle lope round to the other side of the hut and start creeping along the wall. Bodie followed suit so that they were converging on the far side from opposite ends. At the corner, he stopped and glanced cautiously round, grateful for the gloom of the trees. 

There was a manhole on the grass. Two of the group were levering it up. Bodie flicked a glance along the wall. Presumably Doyle was at the other corner, but he could see no sign of him. He looked back at the group. One of them had dropped down into the hole, and another was following on his heels. He could distinguish Bodger now, pulling his long hair into a pony tail and up under his helmet. 

Bodger dropped down, and – was that Dave? Yes, it was, the tree surgeon – Dave passed a rucksack down before coiling ropes around himself. Should Bodie intervene? There was only Suggins left now, and that sodding box on his arm. What the hell was in it? No, he couldn’t risk leaving it any longer. He tensed to move, and then was startled by a shout. 

“That’s enough, Suggins! Stand still! Hands wide apart.”

Doyle had beaten him to it. He still couldn’t see Doyle, who must be the third of a triangle, with the hut wall obscuring two points from each other. He knew he mirrored Doyle’s actions, though, drawing his own gun. 

Suggins, startled, ignored Doyle’s demand, instead grabbing for his gun with his free arm and shooting. The box caused him to overbalance slightly. Bodie saw his lips form a curse. Good. He’d missed. 

Bodie moved into view before Suggins could fire again. 

“Two of us, Suggins, so put it down. Down,” he snapped as Suggins didn’t look inclined to follow. 

A startled head emerged from the manhole. “Bob? What was that noi – shit!” Panic registered on Dave’s face. “Bob? That’s a gun!”

Suggins glared down. “Get out of the way, Dave, don’t get hurt. Stay away.”

“Same to you, Suggers.” Doyle came into view, his gun clearly visible and also aimed at Suggins. 

“Jesus!” Dave ducked back down into the shaft. 

Suggins looked from one to the other of them, evidently considering his possibilities.

“Don’t. Even. Think. About it.” Doyle was caustic. “Gun down, this direction. Gently. That’s better.”

Suggins had stooped to throw it to the side. 

“Right. Move away from it. Bodie.”

Bodie was ahead of Doyle’s instruction, collecting the weapon – a Walter PPK, he noted – and automatically slipping the magazine out. He tucked it away in his jacket pocket while Doyle kept his gun on Suggins. 

“Now then, Suggers. Let’s leave these lads to their mole impressions, and we’ll go and have a little talk. And you can give me the key to that box while you’re at it. Bodie, there was a phone box back there. Wanna call for a car and some cuffs?”

* * * 

“CI5.” Suggins sounded disgusted. “Bloody fly boys. Interrupting everything. Yet again.”

“MI5.” Bodie imitated his tone. “Bloody spy boys. Infiltrating everything – or trying to. Yet again.”

“That’s enough, Bodie.” Cowley swept through the door to the interrogation room in the bowels of CI5. “You and Doyle can get back to your job. Though how you’re going to pick the pieces up from this, I don’t know.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” offered Bodie airily. “Purging the ranks of MI5 infiltration ought to get us quite a long way back into good graces. Can’t we stay? We won’t be missed for a while yet.”

Cowley considered. “Ach, you may as well.” 

Seated at a bare table in the empty room, Suggins looked between them curiously. 

“Never you mind,” Bodie told him curtly. He strode round the table so that he and Doyle were either side of Suggins. “Come on, then. What’s in the box? Do we need nose filters? Sandbags?”

Suggins made no reply. The box, the wrist lock undone, sat on the table between them. 

Doyle shrugged. “Come on, then. Let’s see what’s so special.” He unlocked it and opened it.

There was no gust of air, no explosion. The box fell open. Two cylindrical canisters rolled gently within it.

Cowley reached over and poked at them with a pencil.

“And what are these?”

“Careful, sir,” offered Doyle. “I think I might know.” He looked at Suggins. “You do a lot of these little trips underground, do you? With the anti-nukes crowd? Care to tell us which bits you’ve been mapping?” 

Suggins sneered. 

Doyle shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll ring a friend and find out. In the meantime, sir, just to save time…” he looked at Cowley. “Do you happen to have an exact list of where the… you know… was found in the underground system?”

Bodie watched Suggins flick eyes between the two. His forehead glistened. 

“Aye, Doyle, I think you’ve got it.” You had to hand it to the old bugger. He could be fast. “Bodie, get Philips down here. With a Geiger counter.”

Bodie nodded and crossed to the telephone in the corner. 

“Yes, all right,” snapped Suggins. “It’s hot. Well. Warm.”

“Is it now? Well, I think we’ll all be thankful to know exactly how warm that is, Mr Suggins. Should we be calling for lead blankets, I wonder? And I wonder how MI5 comes to be carting it around central London in the first place. But I think we can now guess to what purpose. You’ve been waiting until the peace group, this band of disaffiliates, whatever they are. You’ve been waiting until their subterranean travels coincide with public avenues into and out of the system. And at points where it will eventually be found, you’ve been depositing radioactive articles. You’ve been making sure that it’s only in places where they have been mapping the tunnels. I expect eventually you’d have stolen that map and leaked it, if the campaigners themselves didn’t publicise it. And then Special Branch, or perhaps even a surprised MI5, would put two and two together, and arrest half the anti-nuclear movement figureheads. And leave the rest wondering how they had failed to notice such goings on and how much else they had missed. Sowing fear and uncertainty.”

Cowley scowled. 

“Now I don’t agree with this movement, Mr Suggins. I happen to think we need that deterrent. But they are peace campaigners. They’re not violent, not the bulk of them. Yes, they have their anarchists and their thugs spoiling for a fight. But CND and their friends have been been thoroughly penetrated over the last thirty years. What did MI5 think they needed to do this for?” 

Suggins remained silent. 

Cowley shook his head. “It’s a question I’ll be asking Willis in a few days. I think I’ll wait until he gets around to asking whether anyone’s seen his agent, though.”

There was a knock on the door. “Phillips, sir.” came a muffled voice. 

“Ah, Mr Phillips. Come in. I have an object for you. Have a quick look at it, and then you can take the case away and devise a suitable method of storage for it. Until someone comes asking for it back.”

Phillips approached, intrigued. He ran a small rectangular object over the case and its contents. “Fairly standard case and canister, sir,” he concluded, looking up. “Traces of radioactivity. Shouldn’t be a problem, not if it’s handled by someone who knows what they’re doing. The idea is to keep it inside the canisters, after all. I suppose whoever it was didn’t know what he was doing. Do you actually want me to open it here? I really ought to take it upstairs.”

“Well, Mr Suggins?” Cowley looked at him. “What would you advise?”

Suggins shook his head stubbornly. 

Cowley smiled. “Ah well. My curiosity will keep. Enjoy your stay here, Mr Suggins. Bodie. Doyle. With me.”

Bodie watched as Phillips trotted back up the corridor with his new property. “That man’s entirely too excited about what’s in there.”

“Mmm.” Doyle nodded dubiously. They both looked at Cowley, who was animated, clearly keen to get to work with his new information.

“So. Obviously MI5 are attempting to destabilise the anti-nuclear movement, by suggesting they’re getting into places they shouldn’t, and have access to materials they shouldn’t. Good work, the pair of you. I think you can finish now. No need to go back and re-establish your cover. I’ll expect your report shortly. And you can explain how you got onto Suggins. Clear the flat out by the end of the weekend, and be back here on Monday.”

“Monday?” Bodie objected out of habit. “It’s Saturday now. We’ve been three months undercover, sir.”

“And the work’s been piling up without you to do it. Wednesday, then, but no later. Now. Out.” He motioned them to precede him.

Bodie opened his month to expostulate, but paused as Doyle dug him in the ribs before pulling him into a fast lope. 

“You’ll never win. Let’s get back to the flat. Or –” he glanced at his watch “–the demo. Speakers will have finished, but the bands will still be playing.”

Bodie shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t think we’re going to have time to hear the bands. We’d better clear out before half the people we know hear we were waving guns around in Lambeth. Let’s pick up a van from the garage. Take the lot in one go.”

Doyle nodded. “Good thinking.”

* * * 

They were about to make their third trip carrying things from the flat down to the van before there was a knock on the door. 

“Bugger,” muttered Doyle. He raised his voice. “It’s open.”

Bodie, in the kitchen, switched the kettle on. Might as well try for civility. He heard boots trooping down the corridor into the living room and popped his head out. Doyle was leaning against the wall, looking resigned. Filing into the room were familiar faces: Isobel. Sue. Thomas. John.

Doyle stayed in place. The four committee members stared at him in silence. Isobel looked uncertain; Sue mulish. Thomas had his head tilted to one side, examining Doyle. 

“Where is it, then?” Sue’s voice was thin and unhappy. 

“Where’s what?” Doyle wasn’t playing. “What’s the matter? No hellos? No congratulations on a successful march? No pooling of info on Special Branch informers?”

“Don’t!” 

“Don’t what?” His voice was mocking.

“Paul says you had a gun,” Isobel supplied. “You and Bodie. And Suggins. And you were going to shoot Suggins.”

“I wasn’t.” Doyle sounded nettled now. “And I didn’t. He was the one who shot at me. He’s the one you should be worried about.”

“But you had a gun, didn’t you? Where is it?”

Moving softly, so that the others couldn’t hear him but Doyle could see him, Bodie stole to the front door and shut it. For added certainty, he locked it. If anyone stole their cases from the car, he’d just have to take up compensation with Cowley. He returned to the room, making no attempt to be silent. They hadn’t moved. Doyle was still leaning against the wall. He nodded his head to Bodie. 

“Cup of tea?” offered Bodie. “Cake? Kettle should just have boiled. And sit down, all of you. It’s been a long day.”

Apparently no-one wanted tea. 

“Just tell us why?” Sue’s voice sounded distressed. “Who are you? Why have you got guns? We’re a non-violent movement! You know that!”

“We weren’t violent!” Doyle repeated. “For god’s sake. Who’s told you what?” 

“Paul told us,” said Isobel eventually. “He said that they were going on that… reconnoitre… with Suggins. And then while they were down there, there was shooting. He said Dave looked up, and he could see Suggins with a gun, and you two as well. Two against one.”

“We didn’t shoot! That was him!”

“But you had a gun!”

“Yes, but I don’t shoot first! It’s only there to stop people shooting me!”

“Oh, Ray!” Sue sounded desolate. “But don’t you see? That’s exactly what we’re fighting against! It’s the same thing. Having nuclear weapons just in case? Claiming that it’s in case someone else drops the bomb first?”

“It’s not the same!” Doyle looked rattled now. Bodie couldn’t resist the temptation to help.

“Of course it’s not,” he agreed. “Guns aren’t radioactive.”

“You’re not helping, Bodie.” Doyle’s voice was taut, but Bodie could see the flash of amusement in his eyes.

“No. You’re not.” Sue wasn’t so amused. “Who are you two, really? Are you more of the same? More police spies? No. You can’t be. You’re together. You can’t be gay and in the police.”

“I’m not gay,” objected Bodie, as Doyle retorted, “We’re not in the police.”

“Well, not entirely gay,” Bodie added, after some thought. Doyle just looked at him.

“And it is the same,” Sue returned to the point. “Using violence to defeat violence. We don’t even know what Suggins was doing. What was going on.”

“Ah. Best not to, really,” Bodie admitted. 

“So who are you? Who was he?”

“Can’t tell you the first. But we can tell you that you were right. Suggins was an infiltrator. And he was trying to set you up. You’d have got the blame for something unpleasant.” Bodie shook his head. “I’m sorry. You need to look gift horses in the mouth more carefully. Fit young guys with useful skills… well.”

“All of them?” Thomas asked shrewdly.

Bodie looked at him. “For what it’s worth, we did as good a job for the campaign as we could. Quite enjoyed the Cruise chase. Thumbing my nose at the plods.” Bodie didn’t look at Doyle. “And the cake.” He flashed a smile at Sue, who didn’t look certain whether to laugh or cry. “But we’ll be going now. Here.” He crossed the room and rummaged in a box. “The committee meeting minutes and phone number lists. They might help you rebuild. We won’t be needing them.” He dumped a box file on the table. 

He could feel Doyle’s eyes on him. Deliberately he didn’t look. “Sure no-one wants a cup of tea? No?”

There was little more to say. He unlocked the door and they filed out. John paused to collect the box file. Thomas hung back briefly. “You’re a loss to the cause, you know.” 

“Yeah, we know.” Doyle came forward, tiredly. “But we do our share. There are worse causes than ours. Or yours,” he added awkwardly. 

“Hmm. Well. Good luck.” The elderly anarchist smiled briefly. “Next time, across the barricades?”

“Hope not. See you around.” Doyle accompanied Thomas down the steps to the street. “Locked the car,” he told Bodie on his return. “But bloody hell, what am I saying? ‘See you around’? I bloody well hope not. I can’t believe that! What a shower! We stop them being used as cats paws, we don’t even fire a shot, and they still hate us! Being perverts, fine, but carry a gun, oh, no, we’re as bad as the nuclear state? What is this?” He made as if to hit the wall.

Bodie caught him. “Hey. Stop it. And we’re not perverts.” He considered. “Well. Not really. You and your fetish with my elbows, that’s a bit perverted.”

Doyle looked at him balefully. “Well, you put them in all the wrong places.”

“Do I? Want to show me where?” He leaned forward. 

“Bodie!”

“Come on, Ray. Good memories, this flat has. Until this evening, anyway. Let’s make some more.

Doyle glared at him.

“Ray. I’m sorry about how it ended, but how can you be surprised? You’re the one who kept telling me all along that they didn’t know when they were well off. Look. No-one’s hurt. No-one got shot. We’ve got one over on Willis.” Bodie considered. “You had more organic and bloody fair trade food than I ever knew existed. And you made me eat it. I even made you cake. And, admit it, the Cruise Watch night was fun.”

“Yeah, all right. I’ll give you that.” Doyle stirred. 

“So come on. Forget how it ended. Forget the packing. We deserve a celebration. Not a wake. We don’t actually have to move out today, you know.” 

Doyle grumbled, and Doyle complained, but in the end, they left the packing for another night. And celebrated. After all, they had until Wednesday.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you beyond measure to [charlottechill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottechill/) for sounding so excited by the idea of a story after the deadline, for providing plot solutions, and for cheering me on at strange hours.
> 
> Thanks also to [JoJo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jojo/) for emergency London geography (and a brilliant suggestion for a location), and to [lukadreaming](http://lukadreaming.livejournal.com/) for sanity-checking and supplying me with the best one-line description of the Woodcraft Folk I have ever heard, a line which I could not fit in, waah! 
> 
> And - oh dear - perhaps there should be thanks to all those people I shared those chilly weekends with, selling badges, leafleting, marching - never got on a cruise watch, though! - through the eighties and after. I hope they forgive me for this...


End file.
